Influenced

While my family was moving about southern Europe every couple of years, I had an aunt and uncle in Germany. My aunt, my dad's younger sister, was a teacher at a military base, just like my parents. She was married to a retired Air Force officer and as far as I knew, they spent all their free time skiing in the Alps, scuba diving in New Zealand and narrowly escaping lions and tigers in Africa. Even before she married my uncle she was sending us presents from all over the globe. I have sequinned scarves from some African country, German toys and books, t-shirts from sporting events in Japan.

Our move to the northern end of Italy when I was fifteen brought us a lot closer to my aunt and uncle who lived in the southern chunk of Germany. It was my uncle, I believe, who decided that the five of us (and our parents, although he probably had no hope for them) should learn to ski. So our first winter in Italy we drove up to an Austrian ski resort and spent a week taking skiing lessons from an extremely cute Austrian ski instructor. Being fifteen I was a lot more concerned about how my hair looked when we went down for dinner in the lodge with all the other Americans on vacation and I didn't learn anything except how to jack up my knees in the snowplow position. My aunt and uncle were awesome skiiers and loved guiding us down the mountains, but I preferred to drink hot chocolate in the lodge. (By our third winter, or maybe the winter of my freshman year of college, one of my sisters and I had smartened up and didn't bother renting skis at all, choosing to shop in the town with Mom and, if we had to go to the mountain, we drank something spiked. I still hate skiing. So cold! So wet! So little fun for the amount of time you spend hauling and putting on all your gear!)

Anyway, it was obvious to me that my aunt lived in Germany and taught American first graders to fund her Alpine skiing habit and I think she was delighted that we now lived so close. They visited us for Thanksgiving and Christmas and took a big interest in whatever we kids were doing. My uncle probably went to every football game my brothers played in Germany and was in the stands the year my volleyball team made it to the European tournament. (You had no idea your taxes are funding elaborate school sports programs, did you?) My aunt wanted to know what plays my sisters and I were in, what I was reading and what I was writing. She seemed to actually think I could be a Writer. One year we all went to London during the summer and I got to see my first West End musicals (which is when I decided to scrap that writing stuff and become a belter of fabulous songs on Broadway.)

When I was a senior my aunt and uncle announced that as a graduation present, they would take me on a trip anywhere I wanted to go. ANYWHERE. I knew they meant it too, so I immediately shouted, "Egypt!" because before "writer" and "Broadway star" I was going to be an archaeologist and dig up the pyramids in Egypt. They weren't so interesting to me now, as a world weary seventeen-year-old, but I figured this was my only chance.

My mom, however, was not amused. Under no circumstances was she allowing me to go anywhere near Crazy Bomb-Happy Terrorists and instead my aunt suggested a package trip she'd just heard about- a week of plays and musicals in London with a theater critic from a Big Newspaper. My mom was okay with this and the week after Christmas, off I went to London to see a new show every night. (In retrospect, London doesn't seem any safer than Egypt from crazy bombers now, does it?)

Ohhh, that trip was AWESOME. I went with my aunt and my other aunt (my dad's older sister, who lived in Dallas). They shared a room which meant I got my OWN room in a SWANKY hotel. We were in a tour group with a couple dozen ancient Jewish people from Los Angeles and let me tell you, they got a huge kick out of having me in their group. And true to the advertising, we had amazing seats at a brand new show every night, in addition to backstage tours and q and a sessions with in-the-know theater people. I saw the all-male Swan Lake (that you see at the end of Billy Elliot), an amaaaazing Maggie Smith monologue, discussed the finer points of Colin Firth with the costume designer from Pride & Prejudice and got sick at a Shakespeare play, took a taxi back to the hotel by myself and overtipped the driver about 4000 percent because I was so flustered and nervous about tipping.

If that hadn't cemented my aunt in the echelons of Super Cool, I stayed with her a few years later in Germany when my old roommate and I were arguing traveling across Europe for the summer. By the time we got to her house I think we were ready to throttle each other, but for some reason our couple of days with my aunt was probably the most fun we had. My uncle had suddenly passed away a year or two earlier, so she was on her own in the house, but everywhere we went we were accompanied by her fantastic friends. They automatically included my roommate and me into their loud boozy dinners out and shared story after hysterical story. My aunt, the perpetual traveler, was quite serious about making sure we saw the necessary sights nearby and often went with us. I don't know anyone who knew as much about art and art history and architecture as my aunt. I especially remember her taking us to the Jewish cemetery in Worms, and telling me about her efforts to piece together our family's genealogy and what may have happened to them along the way to World War II.

I took another trip with her, this time as a what-am-I-going-to-do-NOW college graduate. I hung out at her house for a few days until I tagged along on a ski trip to Montreux, Switzerland and the Alsace region of France. While she skiied I explored Lake Geneva and daydreamed on the train to Lausanne. She was always up for tagging along. I spent New Year's Eve with her and the other skiiers in a dark Swiss restaurant drinking too much wine and coaxing the drunk German across from me to finish my Raclette.

I'm not as close to my dad's family as my mom's. We've always lived so close to my mom's family, even living in Italy- we'd always spend the summers in a house two minutes away from my grandmother's. My aunt would often visit us over the holidays, but I think I got to know her best on these trips away, when she seemed more herself- among her friends and her favorite places.

She took her last trip this weekend. She flew from Germany to Texas where she is now in a hospice center waiting out ovarian cancer.

My dad flew down there this morning. He went last winter when all of this started and I went down to visit for a weekend. I kind of wish I was going again. My aunt was here a few weeks ago to see Jackson and my brother's two kids, but I didn't spend much time with her. I was busy, it's always crazy when so many people are visiting at once, they were staying far away and I was trying to figure out if Jack had a schedule. (Answer: Most decidedly no.) She came to my house and gave Jackson some French baby toys, much like the neato European toys she used to give my brothers and sisters and me when we were little. But I'm not going to see her again and I'm thinking of the things I wished I would have told her last month. Like how it actually did mean something to me that she always asked me about writing, that she considered me a serious contender for publication one day. I'd like to think she thought of me as someone with an artistic bent, like herself. She brought me a book about writing she'd just finished on the airplane, and she bought a whole bunch of wonderful books for Jack. I was going through them later and noticed that one of them she bought for me: Frederick. "I thought of you when I thought of this book," my aunt wrote. But I didn't read it until just recently. It was, after all, about mice.

Frederick is a mouse who doesn't seem to work as hard as the other mice. He doesn't gather food for winter. When the other mice reproach him he says he's gathering "sun rays" and "colors". Then winter comes and all the food is eaten and the mice aren't sure what to do. So Frederick begins to tell them stories. He tells them about the sun and the colors; the other mice feel warmer and brighter and they say, "Frederick, you are a poet!" And Frederick says, "I know it."

But if I was really a poet I'd have something eloquent to say. I went with the cliched "fond memories of my aunt". I figured that was more readable than the expletive-filled treatise on how much cancer sucks, which is really all I've got right now. 

Comments

[Angela]

After reading this, I feel like I know your aunt. I'm sorry you're losing such an important person in your life... I'm right there with you on the expletive-filled treatise, but this was really beautifully written. I know you must have touched her heart just as much as she touched yours.

[Jennifer]

Oh Maggie! I'm so terribly, terribly sorry. Just this time of year exactly, 3 years ago I was visiting my dear friend Catie as she live out her last month--ovarian cancer as well.

My eyes filled with tears--when I started reading I knew what was coming.

It reminded me of how much I loved and miss Catie--she was a similar free spirit who appreciated the creative part of me more than most that I've known.

Hugs to you dear. It's tough. No two ways about it.

[Emeth Hesed]

I'm so sorry. I'm crying write this so I can't see the monitor. I am so sorry you are losing such a wonderful aunt and that Jackson won't grow up knowing her.

I wish all the time that my daughter got to know my grandmother who died suddenly a couple years before I was married. I miss her so much.

Your aunt is right. You *are* a really good writer and I would love to see you published someday. Your writing sparkles with life and joy and feeling.

I will be praying for you and your family.

[Maureen]

I'm so sorry, Maggie. You should send a copy of this post to her. I bet it would mean a lot.

[Arwen]

Lovely.

[Arwen]

The post, that is, not the situation, and certainly not the cancer, which - you are right - totally sucks. I'll be praying for your aunt and for you.

[Katie]

De-lurking (after a long, long time of lurking about) to say I feel your pain. My eyes are hideously puffy today and I'm trying to just hide at my desk because yesterday I found out that my Italian, gourmet-chef, master gardener psuedo-grandfather who taught me so much is losing his own battle with cancer. He has mesothelioma, and if the chemo that they're starting next week doesn't work this time, then . . . that's it. I share your expletive-laden thoughts about that insidious disease.

[Nessa]

I'm so sorry. Cancer is horrible and affects everybody involved. Your aunt is an amazing woman, and you will be a better woman for knowing her. Your family is in my prayers.

[el-e-e]

I'm sorry, Maggie. This is such a loving tribute to her life. Praying that peace will enfold all of you.

[rosie_kate]

Oh. I am so, so sorry. Beautiful post. I think that if you want your Aunt to know how you feel, you should show her this post.

[Gregaria]

Delurking as well. You should totally show this post to your Aunt. God bless.

[Jenny Ryan]

Oh, Maggie, I'm so sorry to hear this. You and your family are in my thoughts and prayers.

[Kate P]

What a beautiful characterization of your aunt.

And yeah--cancer totally sucks. Really sorry to hear, Maggie.

[E.]

Maggie,
Sorry to hear about your aunt. Cancer totally sucks. Losing important people totally sucks. Sending prayers your way.

[Christina]

Your aunt sounds like an amazing woman... she added so much to your life, I was jealous just reading about her interest in you and all those amazing cultural/travel experiences you had with her. I'm sorry she is dying. Cancer sucks.